After visiting Japan, I was jolted into a completely different society again. We made our way to Korea where the streets plentiful trash cans and beggars. Instead of feeling guilty for bumping into someone on the subway, it was perfectly normal to do so and not even have to say sorry. People were chattering with each other even though they were strangers and also wanted to interact with us foreigners. Just walking around in the hotel in South Korea, it felt like Los Angeles, but replaced with an Asian population. The loss of security found in Japan was immediately lost when I stepped foot into South Korea. The South Korean culture has much compassion for each other, which gave them a sense of community that the Japanese people find only when shopping. However, after visiting Paju Book City, the vibrancy of these people and prolonged excitement of the city disappeared.

Paju was established by publishing companies and other support services of the bookmaking process. Because literature holds the power of intellectual development, Paju started to have an elitist take. It became this utopia where every building was perfect in its own individual manner. Upon arrival, I stared in awe trying to comprehend where I was. Growing up in Los Angeles, I was accustomed to seeing “ugly” buildings. Everywhere I looked, each building was designed and executed using a simple diagram.

Panning out from the individual buildings, I started to look at the area as a whole. There was too much uniformity of being unique, which made it all the more ordinary. On paper, it seemed that having a wholly designed area would be great! But actually walking and experiencing the reality of Paju completely changed my perception. If there were only a few well designed buildings, I would be able to appreciate each one as I came across it. Obviously each building had its own individual expression, but as a collective, the imperfection disappeared. Now that each building has its own individual identity, does a cluster of unique buildings still give each building the same individuality?

Why did Paju leave me desensitized while Tokyo and Seoul always kept me engaged? First of all, the city was inaccessible by the subway other than transferring part of the way there from one. Also, I had to take a bus to reach it. Lacking infrastructure diminishes a great amount of people flow to the city, which is why it felt so empty. However, if it was the intention of the publishers to keep Paju isolated from Seoul, they seemed to have gotten the right effect, but as a consequence eliminated the humanistic qualities found in a REAL city. It is the sense of a city’s humanistic qualities that can be critiqued and improved on the most. Yet, because of the lack of this and buildings are well designed, there is barely any dialogue or narrative between human and “city”.

Urbanistically, the only ties within each neighboring building was a weak and unsubstantial patch of garden or landscape. The buildings did not respond to each other and if they did, the city would have had an additional level of cohesiveness that could be appreciated. However, if the city eliminated the garden to construct a new building, the already weak link would be gone and completely sever the dialogue between buildings. In Tokyo, I was always actively engaged because the Shiodome buildings had a unifying dialogue through multiple levels. On the third floor, there was the sky bridge that placed me above the cars and had appropriate access points back to the ground level. At the same time, there was also the ground and subterranean levels that did the same. This high level of engagement is what always kept me on my toes and why walking through Paju was so desensitizing. Paju was missing the multiple layers of human engagement and only used the ground plane to “connect” all its buildings. Paju’s greatest asset of being a designed city became its greatest flaw by not being fully designed.

Cities like Tokyo, Seoul, and Hong Kong all have infrastructure as their main system to bring people into different parts of the city. Having a fully designed development like Paju is not the only ingredient to have a “utopian” city. Paju only has only superficial elements to call itself a “city.” They have avenues, streets, offices, factories, shopping, and other needs that a REAL city has, but lacks the REAL designed aspects of a city. A REAL city has systems, efficiency, and programs to help facilitate the urban construct of people occupying a city. The introductory segment of Made in Tokyo the following chart:

The chart shows a series of possibilities with off and on switches. There are 3 main criteria that compose the “Environmental Unit”: category, use, and structure. When describing architecture, morality becomes a fourth option. The Environmental Unit describes an instance of strange coherency between programs that are seemingly unrelated. Paju would be described with all switches on, making it a “Magnificent Building.” However, cities like Tokyo, Seoul, and Hong Kong all have at least one off switch in the “Environmental Unit” criteria. They can be what Made In Tokyo described as “Da-me architecture (no-good architecture)…they seem to be better than anything designed by architects.” The buildings in developed cities have a clash of unrelated programs within the same confinement, but it is this tension that describes the actual city than the city itself. The multiple layers of subway, retail, hotel, and restaurant within a buildings corresponds with a variety of social purposes. The building becomes this mixing pot of activity that captivates an foreigner’s attention like myself. However, Paju lacks the tensions and layering of buildings, making as boring and as similar to single-family suburban homes.

Could Paju then be considered a real city? Based on the evaluation that it lacks the substantial components of a city, it is at most a “real-fake” city that prides itself on having only unique architecture and the superficial elements that comprise of a city. Paju can eventually transform from a “real-fake” city into a REAL city only if it sheds its singular building monument-like attitude and adopt a more urbanistic approach where these buildings still have their own image, but when all of them are added as a whole, makes Paju something more.

The utopian city is often a concept discussed and theorized by all in the realm of architecture. A city where economic, political, social, urban and architectural qualities allow for an ideal community and promote order and high quality of life. While many aspire to fulfill such a vision, it is often accepted that the idea of the utopian city will never be realized, and thus it remains more of a conceptual construct. Nevertheless, there are instances of this model that exist in the world, none of which come close to fulfilling the essence of a utopian city, but rather in some way exemplify a specific utopian quality. But which of these qualities sets apart and distinguishes different models from each other? After transitioning from Seoul to Hong Kong in the past week, I have come to realize that great architecture alone cannot sustain a utopian environment, or just a city for that matter, and must be offset by other urban strategies to avoid a sense of commonality.

Last week we visited Paju Book City, a skinny strip of wetland north of Seoul where dozens of publishing businesses call home. Paju is a model of an architectural utopia, which is to say that architectural design, on a building-by-building basis, is given free reign. There are no external factors such as context, urbanism, spatial relationships, etc that one must consider when making design decisions. Because of this, the city is read as a collection of objects, each unique and unrelated. In an architect’s eye, this can be a dream come true. Carte blanche to build whatever you want. Many get recognized here, if they can secure a lot on which to design a potential career-changing project. However, even with the plethora of individually successful designs, our group quickly became desensitized to this unconnected fabric, and overall uninterested. The place lacked any sign of life. The streets were vacant, the people hidden, the activity absent. An eerie quiet to each block, only the architecture remained.

Now take into consideration our new location; Hong Kong. Arriving into the heart of this urban mammoth, the city engulfs you with overwhelming density. High-rise after high-rise, every block built out to near critical mass. People everywhere. Yet few instances of famous architecture are evident. The majority of buildings are mundane high-rise apartments or offices, repetitive extrusions of the same type and plan. This is not to say that Hong Kong is devoid of great architecture, but more so that the city is not defined by it. Urbanism is what gives Honk Kong life. The dense fabric connected through numerous transit systems, the multiple programmatic layers, the cultural and historic infusion within modern developments.

Ultimately, Paju is unsuccessful as a functioning “city” because of its extreme focus on the micro. It became hard to find awe and appreciation for a project because it was often times equaled by the four other designs surrounding it. The urban agenda was left unaddressed as well, and consequently Paju’s large collection of individual gems did not keep our group excited for long. Projects tackling the macro as opposed to just the micro are what will proliferate great cities such as Hong Kong, Seoul, Tokyo and New York. While none of these come close to exemplifying a utopian city, their urban success sets them above others with only great architecture. Furthermore, cities need a diversity of design, good and bad to avoid a sense of normalcy. As students who are taught rigorously about architecture as the object, it is necessary to listen to the advice of our faculty on this program if we wish to respect and understand the urban condition; keep zooming out.

The context of urbanism and city planning includes a social aspect related to that of utopian ideals. Often times, cities are conceived, at the genesis, partly under societal ideals that may or may not be successful. Our recent trip to Paju was an exciting glimpse into the beginning workings of an urban community being formed. Literally everything in that city is designed, planned, and executed. Its architectural endeavors make it a remarkable and innovative urban scheme evolving into a new industrial asset to Korea. But how are we to judge how successfully Paju is? If its sole goal was to create a community of great architecture, it might have indeed accomplished the task. However, Paju presents an eerie, almost surreal look into a modern utopia that seems artificially discomforting and rigid. From an architectural point of view, is all that design desirable? How much before it is too much?

Paju Book City arose out an idea to create a community centered on the art of publication and literature. The recent and high-paced urban redevelopment of Seoul since after the Korean War adopted a culture of consumerism and urban density. As Seoul continued to grow larger, the traditional and vernacular culture of Korea began disappearing. The largeness of the urban fabric slowly deteriorates the role and importance of the human being, only offering a negative environment for an individual. Thus, the self-named “City to Recover Lost Humanity” is a modern response to this fast-paced urbanism. The city is about the people coming together under one common goal in art and architecture. By creating an exclusive city dedicated to the cultural values behind literature, Paju hopes to not only become a city of arts, but a cultural complex built upon solid artistic infrastructure.

Ironically, however, the architectural manifestations of this proposal almost seem to negate the very principle idea of the city itself. As a concept, the city was conceived out of “controlling personal, selfish desires in favor of considering common interests first” (PajuBookCity.org). However, if we look at the design features of the buildings, each architectural element of the city is one singular object in a whole field of objects. What lacked was a unifying theme that linked these buildings together. There’s a sense of disjunction between the structures that exhibit a loss-of-place feeling. Alvaro Siza states that in designing his Mimesis Museum in Paju, he found it difficult to design when you had no context to design with:

“I didn’t have as much context as I would like with which I could create a dialogue, I only had a site plan, so I had to concentrate on creating an atmosphere for the building” (Iconeye). As a result, many of these “jewel” boxes are constantly fighting for the attention of the viewer, primarily on the level of façade treatments being applied to almost every single side of the building, whether it be concrete, glass, wood slats, etc. It was interesting to see the overall de-sensitized reaction we had after walking for a few hours through the city; we were bored and nothing really spoke to us anymore. In that sense, Paju perhaps negatively represents the outcome of design; instead of stimulating the senses, it overwhelms them to the point of a numb sensation. Though Paju certainly has a far ways to go before becoming the artistic node it was meant to be, it will be interesting to see how this city and many of these dedicated communities will react to the changing fabric of Seoul.

Our story begins in Paju “Book City,” South Korea, where a young man awakens to find himself in a world unfamiliar to him.

“Where am I?” Chris asks himself, strewn upon the ground with an aching pain in his head. He can’t seem to remember how he found himself on a lawn in front of what looks like a traditional Korean dwelling.

“It has to be Korean,” he thinks to himself as he observes the tiled roof and the thin white window screens that let light into the home.

But as his attention fades away from the old home, he becomes more unsettled, as he sees building after building, block after block of these marvelously designed pieces of architecture.

“I’ve died and gone to architecture heaven,” Chris manages to says, stunned by his good-fortune and taken aback at the sight that has befallen his eyes. He’d only been a student of architecture for 4 years but never in that time had he visited a place that seemed to have such a crispness and cleanliness about it. There were no dilapidated liquor stores or abandoned warehouses or “cookie-cutter” suburban homes.

No, these buildings were all carefully thought out and designed. Not simply dropped onto their sites because it was the most affordable option. There was surely a long planning process in place to make sure such quality buildings were erected here.

“What am I doing just standing around for, I must take this all in!” he exclaims as he began running up and down the street, taking in the majestic elements of each structure. He briefly stops at one, a dynamic concrete building with an exterior staircase that moves Chris to the core.

“Now this is what a staircase should look like. I need to see more!”

One after another he took in a building and it’s components, each one differing from the other.

But then it begins to dawn on Chris. The buildings that started off looking so unique and different from each other start looking more and more alike. A cold chill runs up his back as this thought occurs to him.

“No, no, it can’t be. I’m sure one of these buildings is addressing its context or at least contains an elevation that gestures to an adjacent site. There has to be at least one!” he cries out as he runs from building to building, trying to find one element, one material move that would prove his theory wrong.

He finds nothing.

The dream scenario quickly turns into a nightmare for Chris, who cannot seem to escape this collection of randomly disassociated pieces of architecture. He runs down one street, only to be confronted by more buildings.

Soon they’re everywhere, surrounding Chris until it’s as though they are right on top of him, stifling his breath, choking the life out him. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” he screams sitting up in his bed, beads of sweat drip down his face.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Christian, Chris’s roommate, worriedly asks.

“I-I don’t know. I had a dream I was in this architectural utopia, where it was as if everything were designed by Gehry or Koolhaas…it was all crashing down on top of me. Ev-everywhere…” replied Chris.

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The views and opinions contained in this blog are solely those of the individual authors and do not represent the views and opinions of the University of Southern California or any of its officers or trustees.